


The Boy Who Murdered Love

by mynoduesp



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:03:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynoduesp/pseuds/mynoduesp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something isn't right with Lipton when he returns to Huntington after the war.  His wife goes snooping, and what she discovers sets him off on a journey to finally do the right thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it's like you hit me with lightning

_‘Yours as always, I can only advise you and support you in any decisions you choose to make. That said, you do not sound happy, and while true happiness is perhaps something few of us will ever achieve again, I want something more than base misery for you. A change of pace might do you the world of good. A few of us are here in Boston, and others close by. You know you are welcome to visit any time. Please do. -R.’_

She read the brief letter again, hands shaking and tears beginning to form in her eyes. She couldn’t imagine the voice of the man who had written these words, but that didn’t stop the phrase ‘base misery’ echoing in her head like an accusation. Was her Carwood really so unhappy? They had struggled; it was true, since he had returned from the war. At first she had thought it was just the pressure of readjusting to civilian life, but there was something about the way Carwood would pause during the most random and mundane of tasks, an almost wistful expression on his face like he was recalling fond memories that did not include her. They bickered, and he railed against her in his own, quiet way, which was worse than if he had gotten really angry. Once, she got up the courage to ask if he had left another woman on the other side of the world. He had looked at her, really looked, and said no. She felt terrible for doubting him, and let his distraction slide for a while.

He got a lot of letters from his army friends, and it seemed to make him happier. She tried to ignore the way his face got that wistful look whenever his eyes alighted on a Boston postmark, but the niggling feeling that Carwood wasn’t fully present in their relationship grew and grew until she found herself, sick to her stomach, easing a letter out of the book on his bedside table. She had looked over the envelope, eyes catching the return address. ‘Capt. R.C. Speirs’ and she had been flooded with relief. Everything made sense, now. How Carwood had been avoiding his brother and his old friends, the pained expression on his face when they invited him along to bars or to play baseball. He had obviously made new friends in the army, maybe even a best friend if the number of letters from Speirs was any indication, and he missed him. It must be terrible to feel guilty for missing someone you only knew through the most awful of circumstances. She sighed, heartsore for her sweet husband. She knew she should put the letter back, but since she no longer feared its contents she couldn’t help but be curious.

Now, with the damning missive open in her hand she felt devastated. Clearly Carwood was far more troubled than he appeared. Speirs tone indicated that this was something oft-discussed, and his talk of decisions made her heart sink. Had Carwood confided thoughts of leaving her? The shortness of the letter indicated the seriousness of the situation. What had Carwood written to provoke such a response? That Speirs spoke straight to heart of the matter with no preamble was a damning indictment. The odd opening phrase caught her attention. She would have written ‘as your friend,’ but then again, it was clear from the perfectly formed cursive and the overall philosophical tone of the letter (base misery echoed in her mind again) that this Speirs was obviously well-educated, possessed of an intellect beyond her own. Maybe that accounted for the odd wording; maybe part of what Carwood was missing was spending time with officers just as smart as him. He had come home a lieutenant, and she hadn’t really understood the distinction between officers and enlisted men until a group of boys Carwood had known had snapped to when they saw him in the street. Carwood had saluted back almost lazily, indifferent, and passed by without stopping his conversation with her. It had shocked her to see him so dismissive, and now she recalled the incident, wondering if he was struggling to readjust in the company of people who were beneath him. He had always been so clever, her Carwood, should have gone to university instead of staying to help in Huntington. Did he resent it deep down? Resent being back here after being given the opportunity to rise to his full potential. She sighed. There was no pretending she hadn’t seen the letter, she doubted she would ever forget these words. She would talk to him when he got home, he would tell her how he really felt, and somehow, they would fix this.

 

‘For crying out loud, what do you expect me to tell you Jo?’ Carwood was angry, and not in the quiet way that would see him taking out his aggression through fixing things up with a hammer in the yard or burying himself in a long, difficult book. She didn’t think they had ever fought like this before. ‘That I’m glad to be back, happy to be able to live my life like nothing happened. People DIED. Died in front of me, died in my arms. What the hell do you want from me?’ She blanched. He had never raised his voice in anger before, never cursed. Was this what war had made of her husband?

‘Carwood, please. I just, I just want to know what I can do-‘

‘There is nothing you can do.’ He cut her off, slumping into one of the chairs that were pulled out from the kitchen table. ‘Just, leave it, please.’

‘I will not leave it,’ now she was getting angry. ‘Aren’t you at least happy to be back with your family? With me? I mean, shouldn’t being with the people you love bring you more than ‘base misery’?’ She brandished the letter again.

‘Don’t do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Use that against me. You should never have read that letter, it wasn’t meant for you. It was for me.’ There was something awkward in Carwood’s tone, as if he was trying to claim ownership of more than just a purloined letter.

‘Are you jealous?’ She asked, incredulous. ‘Are you jealous that I read your friend’s letter?’ Something black yawned in her heart, a choking realisation that she could barely fathom. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude, didn’t mean to take you away from pouring your heart out to your precious Mister Speirs. I mean, he is ‘yours as always.’

‘Captain.’ He corrected her like it was automatic, and it was infuriating.

‘Is that seriously what you think is important right now? Did you not listen to another word I just said?’

‘I heard you. You should take it back.’ Carwood’s tone had changed. He spoke evenly, anger replaced with a deadly fury.

‘Why?’ Of all the ways he could have reacted, apart from outright saying it, this had to be the worst. His sudden rage spoke confirmation on every level. She felt sick.

‘Take it back.’ He repeated, biting out the words.

‘Oh my god, it’s true,’ she said weakly.

‘For God’s sake, Jo. Don’t be ridiculous.’ Carwood had always been a terrible liar, something even going through war hadn’t changed. ‘You know if you’re so determined to focus on what’s in this letter, maybe I should get a change of pace, then.’ He said, snatching it back from her and storming from the kitchen.

‘Don’t, Carwood, please.’ She followed him as he marched into their bedroom, hauling his old kit bag out from under the bed. ‘I’m sorry, don’t leave me.’ She felt like she was standing on a cliff edge. She couldn’t un-know what she had just discovered about her husband, couldn’t get past the way it made her feel physically sick in her stomach. But she had only just got him back after so long, couldn’t bear the thought of life without him again. ‘I…I forgive you.’ She said, watching him angrily shove a weekend’s worth of clothes into the bag. He froze.

‘You forgive me?’ He turned away from the bag to look at her, and he didn’t look angry anymore. Thank god, if Carwood was willing to accept her forgiveness then maybe that was all they needed to forget all of this. They would get over it, never speak of it again. Then his face changed. ‘YOU FORGIVE ME?!’ he practically screamed, and there was a darkness in his eyes she had never seen. She flinched, and he stepped back, his shoulders relaxing. He turned back to the bag, started fastening it up. ‘What the hell do I need your forgiveness for?’ He said bitterly.

‘You…you. It’s wrong. How you feel about him. Speirs.’ She stuttered. Carwood laughed, and there was no humour in it.

‘Wrong, huh. What I’ve done wrong, and what I need forgiveness for with regards to Ronald Speirs, I cannot get from you.’ He sounded hollow, and despite everything she ached to take his pain away.

‘God will forgive you, too, I kno-‘

‘It’s not his forgiveness I need either.’ He cut her off, moving to pull his old boots out of the closet. For a second, she was overcome with confusion. Surely Carwood must know that it wasn’t about needing God’s forgiveness. Then it dawned on her. He didn’t think it was wrong at all, he was talking about something else. Had that been why he’d been so sad, looked so guilty? He’d come home heartsore, not from war but from love, had somehow done wrong by Speirs by returning to his old life, and now here he was in front of her, denying God and getting ready to go back to him.

‘Carwood Lipton, if you go to Boston you better take more than just that ratty old bag, because if you do this, if you choose this over me, I don’t ever want to see you again.’ She held her chin straight, determined not to cry. Carwood sat down on the bed next to his bag. She relaxed, glad he had finally come to his senses, and moved to go to him.

‘Jo, no. Just, please, get out.’ Fine, she would give him time. The kitchen was a disaster anyway. She left the room, slipping back down the hall, feeling worn out from arguing and still deeply unsettled, but confident that Carwood would not push her ultimatum. Silence settled on the house while she cleaned, and she could hear Carwood pacing in the bedroom. Probably trying to come up with an apology, she thought fiercely, scrubbing hard at the sink. Shortly after, she heard the front door close. She looked at the clock, saw the time and called out, hoping to head off Carwood’s young sister before she could hear about this fight from her brother.

‘Is that you Abigail?’ Silence. ‘Abby?’ Slowly, she put down the scourer, a creeping dread flowing up her spine. She left the kitchen. The hallway was empty, and their bedroom door stood open like the entrance to a tomb. Mechanically she walked towards it. The room was empty. The nightstand on Carwood’s side of the bed was bare. His kitbag was gone, and so were the two battered suitcases on top of the wardrobe. It looked like he had never come home. There, on her dresser, sat his wedding ring, on top of a sheet of paper.

 

Carwood sat on the train, tapping his fingers on his knee. He knew he should feel terrible, but the removal of his wedding ring had been like the lifting of a backbreaking weight. He had tried, as far as he could to do the right thing. After Jo had confronted him, he had realised there was no point in trying to kid himself much longer. Then the feeling of crushing guilt he had been trying not to acknowledge had come over him in sickening waves. Ron had never blamed him, his letters had never spoken of hurt or regret, but once, on the boat back, he had caught him watching Carwood in the reflection of a mirror. The naked anguish on his face had haunted him in his sleep. Now, he was going to Ron for comfort, and he couldn’t help but wonder what might become of their friendship, which had endured, as despite everything, neither was truly capable of removing the other from their life. He had put on his uniform, and packed up everything he owned that he had been able to remember when shivering in the Bois Jacques. It fit in the two small suitcases with room to spare. Then he had pretended he was back there, that the slightest noise would put a bullet between his eyes and had slipped out of the house without making a sound, the only noise the front door closing behind him for the last time.

He had gone first to the bank, asking for the manager, a man he had always liked. He had greeted Carwood with a puzzled expression that grew into worry as he explained that he would like to withdraw a hundred dollars, and for the rest to be split between his wife’s account now, and a savings account for his brother and sister for their futures. ‘I’m not dying, just…leaving.’ He had said, putting his hand on the table. The manager looked at it, saw what was missing.

‘My son was in the pacific. He couldn’t quite come back from there, either,’ was all that he said. He placed his hand briefly over Carwood’s before explaining the legalities and producing a small sheaf of paperwork to be signed. Then he was back out into the late afternoon, and heading for the train station. He had withdrawn the money not for a ticket (if Luz could use his uniform to go gallivanting across the East Coast, it wouldn’t hurt, just this once) but for a gift. There was a hunting knife with a carved handle in the window of the gun store on Main, and even Carwood had to admit it was a thing of beauty. It was wrapped in brown paper on the seat beside him now as the train pulled out of the station. He had a fleeting thought that he hoped Ron wouldn’t be too tempted to stab him with it, which brought a smile to his lips.

When the train pulled into Grand Central station as the sun rose the next morning, he scanned the platform eagerly. His eyes caught that shock of red hair that practically glowed in the morning light, and the predictable dark head that accompanied it. He hauled his luggage off the train, glad his telegram had made it in time. ‘Lipton,’ said Winters, warmly.

‘Major.’ He saluted, and then smiled, stepping forward into a friendly embrace. ‘Captain,’ he added, looking at Nixon.

‘Don’t Captain me, Lip. It’s 7am. Seven. A. M. I will hurt you.’ He laughed, pulling Nixon into a one armed hug.

‘I wouldn’t expect anything less, sir.’ He tried to protest as Dick bent to take one of his suitcases and gave up. Nixon growled as Dick handed him the other one.

‘Yeah, yeah, whatever,’ said Dick, as though Nixon wasn’t looking murderous. ‘Now what do you say to a proper New York breakfast while you tell us all about what you’re going to say when you get to Boston…’ Carwood felt happy for the first time in days, glad to be in the company of friends who he didn’t have to hide anything from.

He was back at the train station by 11am, stomach full, this time with a ticket. He had protested but Nixon had silenced him with a glare, handing over the money. ‘It’s only 2nd class, don’t feel guilty.’ He grinned, saying one last round of goodbyes before boarding the train. In the 2nd class compartment he came upon a group of privates obviously pulling the same stunt as Luz. They snapped to, and he smiled.

‘As you were, gentlemen.’ They sank back into their seats uncertainly, and then he noticed the wings on their uniforms, and realised why a couple of them looked familiar. ‘Hey, you boys are Able Company, right?’ The afternoon passed quickly, not quite the camaraderie of Easy, but there was always familiar warmth to be found in the presence of Toccoa men, and they shot the shit for a while, letting Carwood smoke their cigarettes, proud to entertain a lieutenant of the legendary Easy Company.

‘You live in Boston sir?’ A boy whose nametag identified him as O’Connor asked. Lipton tried not to laugh, thinking of O’Keefe and how he had only ever heard his own name once, when Perconte called him it purely coincidentally, simply picking the first Irish name that came to his head.

‘Uh, no. I think I’ll be staying there for a while though.’ If Ron lets me, he added mentally. He thought of the telegram he had sent on his way back to Grand Central, and how Ron had only said he was welcome to visit, not turn up with nowhere else to go. He hadn’t been able to think of a way to put that request into words, so had simply sent the arrival time of his train, hoping Ron would show up. ‘You boys going up for the weekend?’

‘Yessir.’ A Jones this time. ‘Gonna checkout the university, see about maybe taking them up on the GI Bill.’ Idly, Carwood wondered if such a thing might apply to him. He had always wanted to further his education, but he knew his battlefield commission put him in an anomalous position. Talk fell to exploits in Europe, funny stories mostly, and Carwood listened happily, adding a few anecdotes of his own here and there, nothing too scandalous or unbecoming of an officer. Well, except that one story about Harry that had the boys rolling in the aisles, but he deserved that.

 

It was dinnertime when the train began to slow, and this time Carwood scanned the platform more with trepidation than eagerness. At first he thought this was about to be a very wasted journey, then he saw a sight that took his breath away. Ron was lounging against a pillar; capped head tipped back, smoking, in a shaft of late afternoon sun. It looked like he was posed for a picture advertising…well, looking like that, Ron could have sold him just about anything. He thought the army had missed a trick with its recruitment posters, at least. Dimly, he realised one of the Able Company men was saying something to him. ‘Hmm?’ He turned his attention back to the carriage.

‘Help you with your bags, sir?’ Jones repeated, grinning.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ Carwood agreed distractedly, shouldering his kit bag and exiting the train. For a second he was confused, the pillar now empty, then someone cleared their throat in front of him. Ron was looking at him, and he could read the amusement in the barest quirk of his lips.

‘Looking for someone?’ Ron smirked, and Carwood wanted to tear that smug look off his face with his lips. Then he had a faceful of material as Ron pulled him into a quick, tight hug, and he had to hold himself back, remember to make it look like a friendly greeting. Ron stepped back, his hands still on Carwood’s shoulders. ‘It’s good to see you, Carwood.’

‘You too.’ He meant it. ‘Sir,’ he added, grinning.

‘Hmm,’ Ron smirked again, stepping back completely. He watched with that familiar, detached expression as a couple of Privates approached Lipton carrying suitcases. ‘Abusing your position, lieutenant?’ Carwood held back a laugh as the two young men snapped to at speed as they noticed Ron, then really had to keep a lid on it as they realised who they were saluting.

‘Captain,’ they said in unison, both looking terrified.

‘At ease,’ Carwood could tell Ron was enjoying himself, wondered how long it had been since he had scared someone witless for fun. ‘Here,’ he was pulling twenty dollars from his pocket, offering it to O’Connor. ‘You boys go buy some pretty girls a drink,’ the young man took it with trembling hands, looking at Jones as if he couldn’t believe their luck. ‘Have a good weekend,’ he said, by way of dismissing them, and Carwood just knew what was coming. The men saluted, and just as they turned to go, Ron spoke again. ‘Cigarette, gentlemen?’ They practically ran from the station.

‘That was mean.’ Carwood was smiling now, letting himself get a good look at the man in front of him. For the first time since he had returned to Huntington, he felt like this was exactly where he should be.


	2. I knew you were trouble when you walked in.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the arrival of one George Luz comes violence, strong language, adult content...the boy is trouble, I tell you.

‘Well, that was bracing,’ Ron said, collapsing back onto the mattress, one hand pawing across his nightstand for the packet of cigarettes he knew was…gotcha.

‘Screw. You.’ Luz gasped breathlessly, but he was smiling as Ron pulled himself up enough to light his cigarette.

‘Try me.’ He leered down at George.

‘Uh, thanks but no thanks. I just ran five miles then got fucked in the ass. If I move, I might die.’ He snorted; Luz was the master of overstatement. ‘Besides,’ the smaller man hauled himself up against the headboard, grabbing for Ron’s cigarette. He let him have it. ‘If you ever let me take you, I’ll know it’s because you’re getting ready to bite my head off, you creepy fucking praying mantis.’

‘Har har,’ he said tonelessly, sliding off the bed and standing up to light a new cigarette. He stretched, could feel George’s eyes on him and casually flipped him off over his shoulder as he rummaged for fresh gear in his drawer. Ron heard what was suspiciously like a yawn and turned round. ‘Oh no. Luz, get your tight little ass outta my bed, now.’

‘But so comfy.’ George stretched like a cat and this time Ron felt himself do the looking. Sneaky little…

‘C’mon, up and at ‘em. I’ve got places to be.’ He pulled on his fresh PT gear, trying to remember where he had kicked his boots to when they had tumbled through his front door. ‘Time for round two,’ he said, mostly to himself.

‘You are crazy,’ George sounded more awed than accusing. ‘Seriously, who gets up two hours early just to do that twice a day?’

‘I like running with you.’ He did, and he knew five miles was not enough, didn’t burn up enough of that extra, deadly energy that even now he still felt like liquor in his veins. ‘But don’t tell the kids, they’ll think you’re my favourite.’

‘I’m not?’ George played mock hurt. ‘I don’t see you dragging them back here for an extra work out.’

‘What you don’t see…’ he trailed off meaningfully, then dodged the pillow George threw without even turning round. Slowly, he put his cigarette out in the ashtray on the dresser and about faced. He looked at the man in his bed for a second, and Luz shivered under his gaze like willing prey. Ron pounced, and for a couple of minutes there was no talking. Eventually, George pulled away.

‘Y’know, it would be great if we could do this sometime that wasn’t four-thirty in the am, and we didn’t have to rush off after.’

‘Mmm.’ Ron thought about it. It would be nice, he mused, to wake up to something besides cold sheets once in a while. ‘Stay over Saturday. We can skip church, stay in bed all morning.’ He kissed George on the cheek and pulled himself back up off the bed.

‘Really?’ Luz seemed uncertain, and Ron wasn’t entirely sure about this new development in their not-relationship, but he had said it now.

‘Yeah, sure. Now, you don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here,’ he half sang as he found his boots in the doorway. He pulled them on mechanically.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ was all he got in response. He shrugged and slipped into the hall. George had a key, he could let himself out. He met Webster and Liebgott on the corner of his block and if they noticed the flush on his cheeks they didn’t say anything about it. They pounded the streets in the brisk cold of the too early morning, taking a different route than he and George had earlier. It was nothing like Currahee, nothing ever was, but it kept them all in check and he was back in front of his apartment building before six, taking the stairs two at a time and pleased to notice that he had once again beaten the milkman. He figured between the two five mile runs and his time in bed with Luz this morning he had probably racked up a half marathon. Not a bad way to start the day.

 

 

Ron was showered and sitting on his couch in a towel with a welcome cup of coffee, trying to decide how to kill the few hours before his completely unnecessary shift at twelve. He side-eyed his desk in the corner. He had been brushing up on his Latin, partly so he could bitch to Keen about Liebgott with impunity, but also because of an interesting proposition that the army had recently dangled in front of him. Sighing, he supposed he should get back to it, but Catullus was boring the shit out of him, so instead he dipped his hand to the pile of books beside the couch, taking up the first one and letting it fall open where the cracked spine dictated. Ron scanned the page idly, letting the words form in his mind. for you are my fate, my sweet) i want no world. The vase on top of the fireplace exploded and the book hit the floor with a thud. He examined his outstretched arm, fighting down the urge to tear the room apart. Sometimes, he could cope when he thought about Carwood. And sometimes he broke vases. He breathed, and moved to pick up the pieces.

‘Shit.’ Ron watched blood well up across his hand with detached curiosity. It wasn’t deep, and would stop bleeding on its own. There was a knock at the door. He wiped his hand on the towel round his waist and went to answer it. He ignored the way the telegram boy stared fixedly at the blood smeared across white, and wondered why the hell Nixon was up early enough to have sent him something marked urgent. He flopped back down on the couch and opened the telegram.

_‘MORNING (DOT) LIPTON ON WAY TO YOU (DOT) HAS LEFT WIFE (COMMA) NEEDS SOMEWHERE TO STAY (DOT) THINK HE TRYING TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT (DOT) DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID (DOT) LY (DOT) LEW (DOT)’_

He didn’t know how long he had stared at the words, willing their meaning into his brain. No sooner than he had taken one tiny tentative step in the direction of George Luz, than Carwood seemed to be his fate indeed. Ron had always known he would be punished, now and always, for the things he had done with a gun in his hand, but he had foolishly thought that God might think it was enough just to take away his Carwood. It had certainly felt like more than enough at the time, and he had been an abject wreck for most of the summer. Like a pendulum of self-destruction he had swung from one extreme to the other; some nights spent getting wasted and fucking the first willing college girl he could find (although it seemed his addled mind had enough sense to insist on condoms as non-negotiable, no matter how black out drunk he was), others spent leering mockingly at the wrong men until someone got dumb enough to call him out on it.

On the nights he stumbled home smelling of strange perfume he was usually too late to go running with Luz, would find him sitting on his doorstep and didn’t fight it when he supported Ron upstairs, rubbed soothing circles on his back as he vomited up bitter whisky and shame. The other nights he felt cruel happiness as he slip stumbled out of the bar and past an alleyway that bristled with animosity. He knocked out teeth, broke jaws, fractured ribs and felt viciously alive. He would get home; wash the blood from his hands and run harder, faster than he had all week. Until the night that someone was very, very stupid indeed.

It had started off like always, taunts of ‘faggot’ and ‘let’s take this outside’. They did, and Ron was just hitting his stride when he felt the change in the air that marked actual danger. These guys had backup, and for one pitiful moment, as he hit the ground again, head reeling, the thought that he deserved this almost took over. Then he saw the glimmer of the broken bottle advancing and knew he didn’t crawl through pig innards and then real innards to die like this. He had surged up, fought as if possessed and didn’t stop until it was just him and that wet-rattling sound that was nature’s way of telling his opponent he had been ambushed. He had stumbled back into the bar, grinning through split lips and ordered a whisky, following it up with ‘you better call an ambulance, I think someone might be dying outside.’

He had slumped across the bar, awaking to the sound of Webster swearing. He watched as Liebgott paid the barman, thanked him for calling and then he was in the back of Liebgott’s cab and he was trying to remember why every part of him hurt and his knuckles were raw and bleeding. Ron’s memory of this night was fractured, flashes of Webster and Liebgott trying futilely to tend his wounds in his kitchen, as he growled and lashed out like a cornered animal. Webster’s accusing voice, saying something about him being lucky that barman was sweet on him, hadn’t just left him for the police to haul in. Luz stricken face in the doorway, and the expression was so familiar, cut right to the core of him. He let himself be led to his bathroom, let those clever fingers pick out grit and broken glass, let himself be cleaned and bandaged and didn’t protest when Luz pulled him down onto his bed, holding him awkwardly against his chest. ‘You can’t keep doing this,’ George had murmured into his hair. It had never occurred to Ron that anyone but Carwood might care for him like this. He let himself breathe in the smell of George Luz and when he spoke his words were almost true.

‘I don’t want to.’ He had been mostly better since then, too. Hadn’t fought, hadn’t gotten drunk and messed around with a girl since that redhead almost six weeks ago, and that had been a disaster anyway. He hadn’t been as drunk as usual and even though her tits felt full and soft under his hands and she was wet and ready for him and he was actually really enjoying himself, he couldn’t seem to bring himself over the edge. Luckily, she got off loud enough to wake her roommate and Ron made a hasty exit with most of his dignity. Sex with George was good, fun, and though he had tried not to let it break down the distance between them, it had been slowly eroded until Ron found himself inviting Luz to stay that morning. And now… He laughed bitterly. Now God was really punishing him. He startled at the sound of the door knocking again, surprised at how much time he had spent engrossed in his old misery. It was the damned telegram boy again.

_ELEVEN FIFTEEN FROM GRAND CENTRAL TO BOSTON (DOT) ARRIVES AT PLATFORM TEN AT FOUR FORTY FIVE (DOT) C (DOT)_

Well, wasn’t that…horrible. Ron looked at the clock on the wall, and then wandered into his bedroom. He cracked the window to air out the smell of sex and stale smoke, and pulled on the clothes he kept for working. Apparently fatigues were not appropriate bookstore attire. He would have enough time to get back here and change after his meagre four hour shift, although surveying his closet revealed the same choice as always. Two of the three shirts his sister had bought him, along with the pair of trousers that he wasn’t currently wearing, and that badly knitted jumper he had commandeered from Luz. It was comically too large for George, and a little small for him, but he kept it anyway. Aside from that, it was fatigues, casual or dress uniform. Casual, he thought.

Ron surveyed the rumpled sheets and general disordered state of his room. He considered changing the sheets, then remembered he only had one spare set, and those were going to have to be used to freshen up the guest bedroom adjacent to his living room. He set to that, and when he was done it was time to go to work. He stopped by the telegram office on his way.

_THANKS FOR HEADS UP (DOT) SOMETHING STUPID LIKE LUZ (QUESTION) TOO LATE (DOT) TELL DICK I SAID HI (DOT) YOU TOO (DOT) RON (DOT)_

He couldn’t remember when he and Lewis had started signing off their telegrams with declarations of love, but it made him smile to think of how it must amuse his best friend. He didn’t feel quite as awful when he got to work and sequestered himself in the history section, moodily alphabetising and reading snatches of whatever he found interesting.

 

 

Four hours later Ron had managed to quell most of his nervousness. Carwood would come, and things would be as they were. Perhaps it should worry him that he was using the same technique he had used when engaging the enemy to deal with his old lover, but he was more of the ‘if it ain’t broke’ school of thought. He went home and changed quickly. He stood straighter in his uniform, felt more himself than he had in weeks, saw a ghost of that trademark blank look greet him in the mirror. He rubbed a smudge off the bars on his cap (and how had that gotten there? sloppy) and resisted the urge to run all the way to the station. It was a beautiful afternoon, and he forced himself to take his time. All things considered, his feelings were rapidly coalescing into excitement at seeing Carwood again after so long, and Ron felt the corners of his mouth tugging up into a smile as he walked. He knew what it said under the black redactions on his psychological profile, knew better than to trust his emotions when they didn’t follow the course of logic but sometimes he just felt like being himself for a while. Doc Roe had memorably told him to give up fighting the small stuff, save the effort for those moments when he had the power of life and death in his hands and that voice was whispering wicked truths. So he pushed away the warning grumble and let himself be excited about seeing Carwood. After all, it was a beautiful afternoon.

Ron cut a swathe through the busy streets, trying not to let the obvious admiration for his straight-backed figure he could hear as he passed groups of women outside cafes distract him too much. Four thirty-five and he found himself ducking to light a cigarette for a frankly stunning blonde sitting alone at a table on the street. Everything was crystallising towards the moment when he would see Carwood, and he saw beauty on every corner, couldn’t stop himself from letting those old quickdangerous smiles make themselves at home on his face. He lit a cigarette for himself and made his way into the station. He didn’t need to ask where the platform was, but Ron did stop a passing guard to enquire just where the 2nd class carriage would stop. He leaned against a nearby pillar, finished his cigarette and pulled another from the pack. Four forty-three and the sun felt warm on his skin, something he had appreciated on a new level since Bastogne. Ron heard the rumble of the train approaching and let himself savour one last drag on his cigarette, letting his head lean back and touch the pillar. The rumble stopped and he snapped upright, slipping through the crowd until he saw those beautiful, familiar eyes searching, confused. For a second he was frozen, couldn’t believe he was really seeing this man in front of him. Ron cleared his throat.

Carwood swung his attention towards him and it was as though the sun had come up in his heart. ‘Looking for someone?’ Ron offered, clinging desperately to the thin veneer of self-control that was the only thing stopping him from launching himself at the other man. Those dark eyes flickered down to his lips and that was all it took. For a few seconds, he felt at peace with Carwood in his arms and then he pulled back, mentally and physically. ‘It’s good to see you, Carwood.’ He couldn’t quite bring himself to let go of him just yet.

‘You too,’ Carwood was smiling; that easy, open smile that Ron envied and yearned for in equal measure. ‘Sir.’

‘Hmm,’ he said, because it didn’t seem appropriate to tell his old lover that calling him sir made him want to break him and put him back together again right here on this platform. He let himself smirk at the mental image, then stepped back fully before his mind could follow thought with action. Ron’s attention was caught by two Able Company privates trotting up to Carwood with his luggage. They were so focused on Lipton that they didn’t notice him at first. ‘Abusing your position, lieutenant?’ The boys snapped to attention with such speed he wouldn’t be surprised if they had whiplash. He watched as their eyes flicked from bars to badge to medals.

‘Captain.’ They sounded terrified. Good, it had been altogether too long.

‘At ease,’ they didn’t relax an inch, and Ron could see Carwood desperately fighting the urge to laugh. ‘Here.’ He offered one a twenty. ‘You boys go buy some pretty girls a drink,’ he said, thinking briefly of the blonde outside the station. The private took it, which Ron knew to be a violation of rule no.3 of the 506th PIR’s directions for dealing with Captain R.C. Speirs: ‘Never accept so much as a piece of lint from the Captain, unless you have a death wish.’ Oh well. ‘Have a good weekend,’ he added, and they rightly took it as a dismissal. A swift glance at Carwood and he just couldn’t resist. He had a reputation to keep up, after all. ‘Cigarette, gentlemen?’ They bolted like frightened deer and it was finally just him and Carwood.

‘That was mean,’ Lipton admonished, but he was grinning and for the first time since Ron had gotten off the boat he felt wholly himself again. He let himself bask in the warmth of Carwood’s gaze, wondering how he had survived so long without this man by his side.


End file.
